


it was only a lick (it was only a lick)

by allonsytosherwoodforest



Category: Men's Hockey RPF, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M, i wish i could say this came to me in a fever dream but alas i was lucid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytosherwoodforest/pseuds/allonsytosherwoodforest
Summary: Brad bites off more than he can chew when someone finally decides to lick him back.





	it was only a lick (it was only a lick)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know almost nothing about Brad Marchand, the Boston Bruins, and the Vancouver Canucks, and I did almost no research. This is just for fun. And for sins.
> 
> Special thanks to spaceyho for the editing and smut consulting.
> 
> Special thanks also to melodiousb for inspiring this. Please check out their work "round one"!

Brad knows he’s not supposed to be doing this shit anymore, but then Jung got all up in Tukka’s crease and then all up in Brad’s face and then gloves are off and helmets are off, and now Brad’s tongue is rasping a line up Jung’s cheek.

He knows the fans are gonna have a field day, the haters, the commentators, fuck, _Cassidy_ is gonna have a field day, but he’d gone a whole season so far without breaking his nose - not to say Jung wouldn’t punch him in the face for this, but Brad isn’t thinking that far ahead - and the licking is almost instinctual at this point. Damn, they should really make a rule against this or something, ‘cause it’s not sanitary.

Brad already knows what will happen. Jung will make a face and yell at him, Jung’s teammates will yell at him, Brad’s teammates will probably yell at him, and then everyone will skate away just a little less comfortable than they were before.

But none of that happens.

What happens instead is Jung blinks at him, shrugs his shoulders, dives in, and-

Licks a stripe up Brad’s face, from the corner of his mouth up and over his eye.

What the _fuck._

Brad is staring, he knows he is staring, his mouth is tingling where Jung’s tongue barely touched it, and fuck, what the fuck.

Jung smirks. "Is that not how you do it in your country?" He boops Brad’s nose and skates away, leaving Brad gaping in his wake.

"What the fuck, can he do that?" Brad chokes out.

Bergey skates up and claps him on the shoulder. "Sure he can. Pick your jaw back up and get your head in the game, Marchy."

 

Brad does not, in fact, get his head in the game. He spends the rest of the game in a fog or the penalty box. He does not stare at Jung. Not even a little. Not even once.

Except he totally does.

Jung practically dances on the ice. His movements are graceful and deliberate, his eyes sharp. Brad never paid much attention to the small kid from Korea playing in the big leagues, but, _fuck,_ he should have because Jung’s hockey is a performance. Stunning, really. And goddamn is that annoying as hell.

Jung was supposed to get grossed out or get angry or get so surprised he couldn’t concentrate. Well fuck, looks like the tables have turned, because Jung is skating like he is running the stage, and Brad is getting chewed out by coach.

The Canucks end up with the win. A beautiful thing off Jung’s stick from Beagle, and then Brad is down the tunnel, Jung is down the other tunnel, and Brad isn’t thinking about the stripe of skin that tingles on his face from the corner of his lip and upwards.

 

Brad would like to say he doesn’t think about Jung after that night. Except he can’t _stop_ thinking about him. No one had ever used Brad’s own game against him, and Brad wants to know who this Hoseok Jung thinks he is. For starters, he clearly should have been a model with those cheekbones and that jawline. How the hell did this kid end up playing hockey? After ending up in a YouTube hole of highlights - fuck the kid is good, better than expected - Brad calls Eriksson.

“Marchy?” Eriksson answers with the tinny chorus of screaming kids playing faintly in the background.

“Hey Loui the Great, long time no see! How are you man? How’s Mikaela? How’s the kids?”

“They’re good, thanks. Are you calling about Jung, Marchy?” Eriksson asks, wry smile evident in his voice.

“What? Psh. No! Why would you think that? That’s ridiculous.”

A moment of silence broken by a child’s delighted laughter.

“But, if I was calling about Jung,” Brad says carefully, “What would you tell me?”

Eriksson laughs. “Hobi’s a good kid. Always smiling like he’s got the sun shining out of his ass. Friendly, bit of a jokester. Hell of a skater. Big fan of yours, Marchy.”

“Me?”

“If you’re planning on breaking his heart you better stop right now. He’s a popular guy around here.”

“Who said anything about breaking hearts?”

“My wife’s got dinner on the table,” Eriksson says. “Nice to hear from you, Marchy.”

 

The Canucks are on the schedule again in a couple weeks, and the game sneaks up on Brad quicker than he expects. Brad absolutely is not nervous to see Jung again, that would be absolutely absurd, but his stomach swoops when he swoops past Jung in neutral ice during warmups. Brad is sure he imagined the wink Jung sends his way.

Their lines don’t often match up, so Brad spends most of the game watching Jung from the bench. Jung seemingly has decided to park himself him Tukka’s crease and is getting aggressive. Brad frowns. That isn’t Jung’s usual playing style. Is he imagining the glance thrown his way when Jung gets low down in front?

When their lines do finally meet, Jung is on him instantly. Jostling him during the face-off, checking him hard into the boards, and finally, knocking Brad’s helmet off with a gloved hand and getting in his face when the ref blows the whistle. Fuck, was he trying to make Brad _angry?_

“What the fuck, dude?” Brad roars, squaring up for a fight. But Jung doesn’t look angry. He is smiling broadly, and fuck, is the fucking sun twinkling in this dude’s eyes?

“I was wondering if you wanted to kiss this time?” Jung asks, fluttering his eyelashes.

Wait. What?

“Wait. What?” Brad asks.

“Well, last time you licked me, and I licked you, so I assumed the next step was kissing,” Jung says matter-of-factly.

Wait. What?

“Wait. What?” Brad says again.

“Oh, you want to get dinner first?” Jung asks, drifting into Brad’s personal space. The refs are yelling for them to wrap it up.

“Dinner?” Brad asks weakly, trying to look anywhere but Jung’s lips.

“Great! I’ll meet you outside the locker room after the game.” And with that Jung flashes another bright smile and skates off towards his bench.

“Hot date tonight?”

“Shut up Bergey.”

 

Brad spends the rest of the game either in the penalty box or debating whether or not Jung was serious about dinner. Turns out he was, ‘cause when Brad leaves the visitors locker in his gameday suit with his bag slung over his shoulder, he almost runs directly into a smiling Jung.

“You were serious?” Brad says weakly, definitely not checking out Jung’s thighs in his own gameday suit that seems a touch too fashionable for a hockey rink. Is that suit actually… Gucci? What the f-

“Come on, we have reservations,” Jung says in response, dragging Brad down the hallway by the wrist.

“Did you plan this?” Brad asks incredulously, shifting his bag on his shoulder.

“Yep,” Jung says, popping the p.

“Oh my god,” Brad says quietly.

Jung leads him to a white sports car parked under the rink. He puts Brad’s bag in the trunk and opens the door for him, grinning the whole time. Before he even realizes what’s happening, they are speeding down the quiet nighttime Vancouver streets while Jung smiles and chatters and cracks jokes about Brad’s play and the ice condition that night. Brad finds himself smiling and joking along, relaxing back into the smooth leather seats of Jung’s car.

Before too long, Jung is pulling off the main road and smoothly parking in a small lot off a side street.

“Wait here,” Jung says and hops out of the car. He practically dances around to Brad’s door before opening it. He waggles his eyebrows and proffers his arm for Brad. Brad throws back his head and laughs.

“Such a gentleman,” he says, accepting Jung’s arm.

Jung leads him smoothly across the street and through the front doors of a restaurant that, judging by the sign, is Korean. Despite the late hour, the restaurant is still quite full of diners, and the sounds of soft chatter and laughter float through the air. Jung speaks quietly to the hostess in Korean, who returns his charming smile and leads them promptly to a table in the back corner of the restaurant by the windows.

“Romantic,” Brad comments, settling down in his seat.

“That’s the point!” Jung chirps happily.

Brad freezes. “Wait, is this a date? Are you flirting with me?”

“Have been for the last two games, but thanks for noticing,” Jung says, smile still warming his cheeks.

“Oh,” Brad breathes.

Jung looks nervous for the first time all evening. “Is that… okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Brad swallows. “Yeah.”

“Good!” Jung grins and turns to summon the waitress. He orders rapidly in Korean while Brad looks on curiously.

“What’s on the menu, Jung?” Brad asks.

“Oh please, call me Hobi,” Jung- _Hobi_ says.

“Okay,” Brad says, grinning. “What’s on the menu, _Hobi?”_

Hobi’s smile melts into a smirk. “Well, first, traditional Korean barbeque. After that? I was hoping you were available for dessert.”

Brad feels his stomach drop into his knees. “That can probably be arranged,” he breathes.

“Good,” Hobi purrs. They stare at each other for a moment before Hobi breaks out into a smile again and ducks his head. “I hope you like the food. Sometimes, uh, foreigners find it a little spicy.” 

Brad laughs. “You can say ‘white people’, I won’t be offended.”

Hobi gasps and puts his hand over his heart dramatically. “I would _never._ ” And just like that the conversation is off and running again. Soon, a waiter is bringing small bowls filled with a variety of vegetables and sauces. A platter of raw meat soon follows, and the waiter fiddles with a switch and a knob on the side of the table, firing up the grill at the center of the table.

“We cook our own food?” Brad asks, curiously watching Hobi lay out the meat on the grill with a pair of long chopsticks.

“Yes! This is the Korean way,” Hobi says, smiling up at Brad through his bangs as he finishes placing the meat. Brad’s heart skips a beat.

“What was it like growing up in Korea?” Brad asks.

“Well…” Brad is fucking enamoured as Hobi animatedly tells tales from his childhood, complete with big hand gestures and sound effects, all while carefully checking and grilling the meat. When Hobi checks the underside of a piece of pork and finds it finished, he makes a happy noise in the back of his throat (which Brad does not melt at), and reaches for one of the large lettuce-looking leaves piled neatly on one of the many plates filling the table. Brad watches as Hobi covers the meat in two different kinds of sauces, places it in the lettuce wrap, and tops it off with some different vegetables from a few different bowls. He carefully wraps the lettuce closed and holds it out towards Brad’s mouth.

“Say ‘ah’,” Hobi says, looking hopeful.

“Ahhh,” Brad says, leaning forward to accept the wrap, mouth open. Hobi’s fingers brush Brad’s lips as his mouth closes around the wrap, and he definitely shivers because they are sitting under the air vent, that’s all.

A variety of flavors explodes on Brad’s tongue. It’s delicious, a new flavor experience, fed to him by perhaps the cutest man in the whole world, and-

 _Fuck,_ it’s spicy. Brad’s eyes go wide as he valiantly chews on, trying desperately to suppress the tears welling in his eyes. _Come on, Brad,_ he thinks, _If you can take a puck to the face you can eat this fucking Korean wrap that the cute boy is feeding you. Fortify, dude, fortify!_

He swallows and lets out a gasp. Hobi’s face falls.

“Oh fuck, was it too spicy?” he asks.

“No,” Brad croaks, reaching for the water pitcher.

“Let me get that for you!” Hobi says, reaching across the table. Brad gasps, as in his haste to grab the water pitcher, Hobi knocks the whole thing over onto Brad’s lap.

“ _Fuck,_ that’s cold,” Brad gasps, standing in shock.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Hobi says fervently, running around the table with his napkin in his hand. He bends down and tries to pat Brad’s lap dry with the napkin. “This is not how I wanted to touch your dick the first time. Beags said I should have just taken you for Italian or something,” Hobi says dejectly. “I’m so sorry, Brad.”

“No, no, it’s okay, don’t worry about it!” is what Brad wants to say. What he actually says is something more like “Hrmmspmft” because this is not how he wanted to see Hobi on his knees for the first time, but _fuck,_ is it still a sight to behold. Brad finds he doesn’t really care that it looks like he wet himself if Hobi looks like _that._

One of the waiters rushes over with a fistfull of cloth napkins and a mop for the water pooling on the floor, effectively snapping Brad out of his brief lust-induced haze. After a minute or so, both a slightly damper Brad and the table are cleaned up as best as they can be, and they are sitting down again. Hobi has his face in his hands.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” his muffled voice comes. “Do you want me to take you back to the hotel?”

Brad stares at this beautiful man, who is so distressed over spilling _water_ on Brad after a hockey game Brad fucking _lost_ in _Vancouver,_ who took Brad to eat his culture’s food and told Brad about his childhood and cracked frankly excellent jokes, and Brad never wants to see this man frown again.

Brad reaches across the table and pulls Hobi’s hands away from his face. “Hey, look at me.”

Hobi looks up, pouting adorably. Brad swallows hard.

“It’s okay. I don’t want to go back to the hotel. I’m not angry at you. I want to eat this dinner with you. Just, maybe with less spice this time?”

Hobi studies Brad’s face for a long moment before he breaks out into a grin again, and it’s like the sun parting the clouds. “Okay, that can be arranged” Hobi says.  

“Great! Let’s have a drink,” Brad says, gesturing at the pitcher of beer sitting by Hobi’s elbow. He reaches for it and-

Fucking knocks the whole pitcher on to Hobi’s lap.

“Oh, _fuck,_ this suit is Gucci,” Hobi moans, standing up quickly to avoid more beer spilling into his lap.

“Who the fuck wears Gucci to a hockey game?” Brad asks in a panic, practically throwing his napkin at Hobi in his embarrassment. “Fuck, we’re a mess.”

The waiters descend on the table with more napkins and a mop and a new pitcher of beer. In another minute everything is squared away again and Brad is groaning into his hands.

“Just take me back to the hotel and board me at the next game,” Brad says, wanting to die just a little bit.

But Hobi just laughs and pries Brad’s hands away from his face. “Now we’re even! Come on, let me make you a wrap that’s not spicy.”

 

The rest of dinner passes without any surprises, and when everything is cleared away and Hobi waves off Brad’s attempt to pay the bill, Hobi sweeps Brad back out across the street and before he knows it, they’re speeding off down the road towards Brad’s hotel.

Before long, they are parked across the street from the hotel. The car only faintly smells of the beer Brad spilled. He turns in his seat to look at Hobi. “Thanks for inviting me out. I had a really good time. I promise I won’t send you the dry cleaning bill for my suit if you don’t send me yours. I don’t want to know how much it costs to fix Gucci.”

Hobi throws his head back and laughs. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, covering Brad’s hand with his. “Thank you for coming out with me.”

“You know earlier tonight, I totally thought you were gonna deck me. I thought maybe you were finally angry about the, um, licking thing,” Brad says sheepishly.

“On the contrary,” Hobi says, leaning in. Brad doesn’t lean away. “I was hoping there would be more licking in my future. And dessert.” And with that Hobi seals his lips over Brad’s.

Brad groans and buries his hands in Hobi’s hair, pulling him closer. Fuck, this kiss is _fire._ Hobi devours Brad’s lips like Brad is the last oasis in a vast desert and Hobi wants to suck him dry. Brad gasps when Hobi licks at the seam between his lips, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip his tongue inside Brad’s mouth. God, Brad should’ve licked him ages ago, and isn’t that a weird thought, but thoughts are kind of on the back burner as Hobi angles his head and does _something_ with his tongue that has Brad seeing stars.

(It does take a couple of tries to get the angle _just_ right. “They don’t call me ‘Nose Face Killah’ for nothing,” Brad cracks before diving back in.)

After several long minutes Hobi, draws back with one last lingering lick to Brad’s lips. “I think it’s past your curfew, Brad,” Hobi says, lips shiny and swollen.

“Uh,” Brad says, staring dazedly at Hobi.

“You better get inside,” Hobi says, still smiling beautifically. “You have a plane to catch in the morning.”

“Uh, yeah,” Brad says, reaching for the door handle. Hobi hops out of the car and retrieves Brad’s bag from the trunk, placing it neatly on Brad’s shoulder and smoothing his jacket.

“Well,” Brad says, scuffing his feet on the pavement. “Thanks for dinner, and uh. The um. The- Yeah.”

Hobi smirks. “Go get some sleep, Brad. I’ll see you soon enough.”

Brad smiles. “Yeah. See ya around.” He turns to go. “Wait.” He turns back. “Did you park across the street in the dark just so you could make out with me? That’s pretty shady, Jung.”

Hobi just winks and slips back into the driver's seat of the car.

“That’s not an answer!” Brad calls, but Hobi just waves through the window, honks twice, and speeds off.

It is only as he is getting in bed later that night that Brad realizes he didn’t get Jung’s number.

 

God, Brad loves the All Star break. No one to see, nowhere to go. Workouts and meals on his own time. Brad slams the door of his refrigerator shut after grabbing a bottle of water. Yeah, his mom bought him a Brita filter last Christmas, but sometimes it's just so much easier to pollute the environment than to fill the damn thing. He twists the cap off and is bringing the bottle to his lips when his phone rings. A Canadian number? He cautiously answers, "Hello?"

"Marchand, it's Hobi. I'm in Boston, let's fuck."

Brad chokes. "What?" Wait. What? "Wait. What?"

Jung snorts on the other side of the line. "I'll buy you dinner first if that'll untwist your panties. Or get them off. Do you wear panties?"

Brad feels heat rising in his cheeks.. "What? No-" Eloquent, Bradley.

"Do you want to?"

Brad wants to spontaneously combust. Well, most of him wants to spontaneously combust. His dick appears to want to spontaneously, well, bust.  "Where are you?" Brad asks instead.

"Boston Logan International Airport."

Wait. What?

"Wait. What?"

Brad can feel Jung's eye roll through the phone. "I said I wanted to fuck. I'm at Terminal 2. Come pick me up before I break my diet plan and fuck up that Auntie Anne's over there. Or should I Uber to the nearest Victoria's Secret and pick you up a pair of-"

"I'll be there in 30 minutes!" Brad yells, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he shoves his feet into the nearest shoes. He can practically feel the heat of Jung's smile through the phone. Of Hobi's smile.

"See you soon, Brad," Hobi purrs over the phone.

The line goes dead.

Brad stands there for a moment.

"Well, I'm fucked." And he runs for his car.

 

Hobi keeps his hand settled firmly high up on Brad’s thigh as they speed away from the airport and back to Brad’s house.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Hobi says, the cheerful tone of his voice juxtaposing the position of his hand.

“No problem,” Brad says thickly.

“You took too long to get me though,” Hobi pouts, squeezing Brad’s thigh a little. “I ended up eating Auntie Anne’s anyway.”

“That’s no good,” Brad says, resolutely not glancing over at Hobi.

“On the contrary, it was _very_ good.” Hobi makes a sound like he was licking his lips. “But I’m still hungry.”

“Oh, we can stop somewhere if you want? Or I can probably attempt to cook-”

“That’s not what I’m hungry for Brad,” Hobi says, his voice closer than before.

“O-oh?” Brad says intelligently, eyes fixed on the road.

“Yeah,” Hobi’s voice is even closer. “I want something to suck on. Something to… lick.” Hobi’s breath ghosts over the shell of Brad’s ear. Fuck, _fuck._ Brad will _not_ crash this car before he gets home and gets horizontal.

“Aren’t you happy you licked me, Brad?” Hobi says into Brad’s ear as he palms Brad’s dick through his pants. Brad gasps and jerks under Hobi’s hand. Fuck, that shouldn’t be hot, what is wrong with him?

“I am _driving,”_ Brad hisses, but he doesn’t move Hobi’s hand.

Hobi ignores him, moving his palm in slow circles. Brad _aches_. “Don’t you want to lick me some more, Brad?” Hobi purrs.

“God, _yes,”_ Brad groans, shifting his hips up slightly into Hobi’s palm. Hobi smiles against his ear, he can _feel_ it, and there is a wet stripe licked under his ear, and Brad jerks and-

“Fuck, _fuck, Hobi,_ you gotta stop, baby,” Brad moans, doing his best to drive in a straight line. “Wait ‘til we get home so I don’t crash the car.”

With one last squeeze, Hobi releases Brad’s dick. “Fine, have it your way,” he sighs dramatically, settling his hand back on Brad’s thigh. “I’ll behave.” Hobi tightens his hand on Brad’s thigh. “For now.”

 

Brad scarcely makes it home alive. Hobi keeps his promise of behaving - barely. He spends the rest of the car ride whispering filthy things into Brad’s ear. Brad hardly parks the car before they are crashing through his front door, tearing at each other’s clothes. Brad holds Hobi’s face in his hands, molding his lips against Hobi’s, and Brad sucks at Hobi’s bottom lip before Hobi pushes him off and makes impatient noises and hand gestures at Brad’s shirt.

It’s fire and it’s burning Brad from the inside out.

Hobi runs his hands over Brad’s chest appreciatively and flicks his nipples, pulling a whine from Brad’s throat.

“Where’s the bedroom?” Hobi pants into his mouth.

“The floor is just as comfortable,” Brad manages, gasping around a searing kiss, shoving his hand down the front of Hobi’s pants.

“I’m fucking you,” Hobi breathes, “in a bed.”

Whatever is left of Brad melts through the floor.

They manage to make it to the bedroom, a trail of clothes marking their journey. Brad falls back onto the bed, swallowing hard and Hobi kneels on all fours above him. Hobi leans down and nuzzles at Brad’s neck before sucking hard.

“Jesus, are you a vampire?” Brad gasps, arching into Hobi’s touch.

“I wanna touch you everywhere,” Hobi moans in response, sucking kisses down Brad’s neck.

“Definitely a vampire,” Brad says. “Are there vampires in Korea?”

“Brad?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

Hobi kisses his way down Brad’s body, sucking soft marks into Brad’s skin and licking over them when he’s deemed them finished. Brad lies there in a daze, running his hands feverishly over whatever part of Hobi he can reach. He can’t decide which part he wants to touch the most. His favorite part might be Hobi’s thighs, thick and muscled, and they both moan when he squeezes them. When Hobi’s mouth finally drifts down to the crease of Brad’s thigh, he only teases with a few kittenish licks before pulling away.

“Why’d you stop?” Brad moans, palming Hobi’s ass and probably looking as wrecked as he feels.

“Because I need lube,” Hobi says, sitting his ass down directly on Brad’s thighs and sliding his cock along Brad’s abs.

“Ohhh, _fuck.”_ Brad’s thinks he could cum from the image alone. “I mean, lube, yes. Lube. I have that. Let me. Yes. Lube.”

Hobi laughs and rolls off Brad when he indicates which drawer the lube is probably in. Hobi lets out a noise of triumph when he finds it and Brad’s little giggles break into moans when he feels a slick finger prod at his entrance.

Hobi circles the tight ring of muscle teasingly for what feels like a decade, kissing Brad with a tenderness that belies the action of his hand. With his free hand, Hobi threads his fingers through Brad’s hand, squeezing comfortingly. It’s this kiss, out of everything, that makes Brad’s toes curl.

“You ready?” Hobi asks, his finger stilling.

“Yeah god, yes just-” Brad breaks off into a soft moan as he feels Hobi’s finger finally enter him. And Hobi is so heartbreakingly gentle. He listen to Brad’s body, to his words, following Brad’s instructions of “more” and “faster” and “wait”, following the long groan Brad lets out when Hobi sinks in two fingers, knuckle deep.

The stretch is delicious, like the ache after a game hard-won but well-won, and Brad’s feet flex at the feel of it. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until Hobi’s fingers pause and he hears a low whine that takes a second for him to register is his own voice. Brad tries to speak, but all that comes is an impatient huff and vigorous nodding. Luckily Hobi gets the message that everything’s more than okay, and resumes his movements, slow but precise, gently spreading his two fingers wider and wider.

And he doesn’t stop kissing Brad. Kissing his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his lips. Soft, tender things one moment, ravenous, devouring things the next. And Brad can hardly keep up. But Hobi swallows every gasp, every whimper, and eventually he’s pulling three fingers out of Brad and asking him if he’s ready, if he’s sure.

“Yes, yes, I’m ready, I’m sure, please, _please,_ fuck me, Hobi,” Brad says, wiggling at the uncomfortably empty feeling between his legs. Hobi smiles, plants another sweet kiss on Brad’s lips, lines his hips up, and braces himself at Brad’s entrance.

Brad’s eyes roll back into his head as Hobi pushes in, achingly slow. It burns, just a little, but Hobi distracts him with kisses until he bottoms out and they’re both panting like they’ve just come off a hard shift.

Brad lifts his legs and wraps them around Hobi’s waist, locking his ankles about Hobi’s ass. “Fuck me?” He asks - doesn’t beg -  looking into Hobi’s eyes. And, fuck, seriously, did this guy swallow the sun? Because Hobi’s answering grin almost blinds Brad with it’s brightness.

“Anything for you,” Hobi murmurs. And then he’s thrusting into Brad, hard and fast, and Brad forgets anything that isn't’ “Yes” and “Hobi” and “More”. Fuck, has he ever been fucked this good?

“I want you,” Hobi pants into the column of Brad’s throat, scraping his teeth over his Adam’s apple, licking where his teeth had just been.

“You have me, you have me,” Brad moans, feeling every inch of Hobi’s cock inside of him and wanting _more._ He reaches down to grab his own cock, but Hobi bats his hand away and takes Brad’s dick in his hand, pulling him off to the time of his thrusts.

“Yes, yes, Hobi, _yes,”_ Brad chants, fucking himself back onto Hobi’s dick. Hobi groans deep and speeds up, his hip bones knocking bruises into Brad’s thighs with every thrust. Brad thinks, in the back of his mind that he’ll savor any mark left by tonight. The pressure builds builds builds, and then Brad is on fire, he’s burning, burning, burning-

With a long groan of Brad comes apart, clawing a long stripe down Hobi’s back as he comes and comes and comes and lights dance behind his eyes. He lays boneless on the mattress as Hobi takes and takes and takes and fills him with his own groan of “Brad”. The breath empties out of Brad’s lungs with a long content sigh as Hobi collapses on top of him, the both of them now breathing hard.

The thrum of the ceiling fan echoes through the air, mingling with their breaths as they recover from their high.

“So,” Brad says after a few long minutes, chest rising and falling under Hobi’s head.

“So,” Hobi says, grinning into Brad’s collarbone.

“How did you get my phone number?” Brad asked.

“Oh, I just asked Loui. He told me you called him, by the way.”

“Goddamit is nothing sacred.”

“Not in Vancouver. When I asked for your number he gave it to me by writing it on a box of condoms and leaving it in my locker.”

Brad snorts at that and Hobi giggles before the two of them lapse into silence again. After a bit, Brad smiled down at Hobi.

“I’m so fucking glad I licked you, dude.”

Hobi’s laughter fills the room with a light brighter than any star.

 

Jung’s hanging out in Tukka’s crease again.

He’s hanging out in Tukka’s crease, he’s up in Brad’s face, and gloves are off, and helmets are off, and, fuck, Cassidy was really gonna chew him out after this, and Don Cherry’s inevitable comment would make headlines, and this is definitely not sanitary, but Jung’s shrugging his shoulders, smiling like the sun, making dinner plans for them after the game, making summer plans for them after the season ends, sleeping over at Brad’s during a long weekend, and-

Rasping a stripe up Brad’s cheek, from the corner of his mouth up over his eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Satan fell for less than what I've done today.
> 
> Stay tuned for more BTS x NHL fics.
> 
> Catch me on tumblr @fourthbagel or @savingprivatechoi


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